


Stupid Deaths

by Ain_Individual



Category: Horrible Histories, Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 11:16:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5965270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ain_Individual/pseuds/Ain_Individual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Grim Reaper is no stranger to the concept of embarrassing transactions to post-mortem. However, due the incredulous amount of stories that are lacking any humorous element, he has found that his job is quite a bit more dreary than not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stupid Deaths

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to skip these notes and come back later - I'm only writing it here to avoid confusion for anyone unfamiliar with either of these texts. :>
> 
> Welcome to the first Team Fortress 2 and Horrible Histories crossover, to my knowledge! This was written about a year ago, but it held up surprisingly well when I went through it to give it a polish. I thought it would make a good first work to post up, here.
> 
> If you are unfamiliar with Horrible Histories - either the books or the show - then first, I'd highly recommend watching or reading it - It's a great bit of satirical British humour. Second, this involves a segment in the show adaptation called 'Stupid Deaths'. Basically, the Grim Reaper judges famous deaths in history, depending on how stupid they are. It's wonderful. I maaay have written him a bit more jaded here than how he appears in the show, but that's what usually happens when I write for a character who isn't characterised very well in their original context. :P
> 
> Now that that wall of text is out of way, on to the story. I hope you enjoy it. :)

" _Stupid deaths, stupid deaths: they're funny, 'cause they're true_

_Stupid deaths, stupid deaths: hope next time, it's not you!_ "

He had been chanting that same mantra over and over again for as long as he could remember. He had also sat there in that booth surrounded by his skeletal judges for as long as he could remember, reviewing the deaths of all of those who crossed the veil (Which was, unavoidably, everyone who came to walk the earth in the first place). At first it was somewhat interesting, in a morbid way, listening to whatever story each and every person had to tell of their demise. It was a little strange, he thought, how calm they could be about it. He'd never forget how surprised he was when he first heard someone describe their horrible death in excruciating detail as casually as they might discuss the weather. He supposed once you realised you no longer had to worry about the overhanging threat of death, it seemed a little unnecessary to be insecure about it. He couldn't remember himself how he died, or if he was ever alive in the first place, but he didn't know if he would have thought so little of his transition from being alive to not. There were of course the few souls that didn't even know they had died yet, and pretty soon he became very rehearsed in the 'Terribly sorry, but you're dead' speech. Oddly, the biggest reaction that he ever got was a surprised "Oh".

But after a while it just became so _boring_. Plague, burning, drowning, falling, murder... It was all so _bleak_ and _depressing_ and even _repetitive_. He didn't even bother listening to the ones that died 'peacefully in their sleep' (They were always the ones who said something along the lines of "Well, I went to sleep, and the next thing I know is I've woken up here"). It was probably why he laughed like a hyena whenever he heard a story that was mildly different or humorous; he jumped at even the slightest chance to laugh, or be entertained.

So when he heard a somewhat skinny boy in a red shirt wearing a baseball cap say that he was literally stabbed in the back by what he thought was his spy but turned out to be the enemy's spy, during his work as a mercenary, he hollered like no normal human being should at the situation. The boy just stood there with the usual slightly uncomfortable and unsure look that they always had when he laughed at them. However, when he managed to calm himself down and told him he was free to go to the afterlife, something happened that never had before.

The boy vanished.

Just like that: no poof, no sparkle, no smoke, just one moment he was there and the next he wasn't. He hadn't even turned around to walk through the portal.

He had just sat there, dumbly, staring at the void of space the baseball mercenary had taken up mere seconds ago. He didn't actually manage to process the situation until the next person in line said, "Er, is it my turn, now?"

He had told her to hold her horses while he checked the name list and checked again. He had said his name was Grover Colin Boon, but he had also said it was fine to call him 'Scout'. Yep, there it was, right on the paper. It even had the name Scout in parenthesis right after it - there was no way there could have been a mix up. Then again, there was that one time where the fellow with the beard had walked in and right back out before he even had his name checked (Later he had found out that he'd died by crucifixion, and wasn't particularly disappointed that he never met him). And then there was that other time a bunch of demons intercepted a murderer who burned to death in a factory before he lended up in the lobby, turning him into some dream-haunter-thing, so he supposed that avoiding his particular afterlife transition wasn't that unusual. Perhaps this 'Scout' person was the same as the crucifixion guy but no one ever told him? He decided to try and forget it ever happened.

However, it wasn't long before happened again. This time, it was with a different mercenary, this one dressed in blue and wearing a slanted hat and sunglasses. He said he'd been unlucky enough to be set on fire by a pyromaniac (Unlucky, because in his line of work he was a sniper, and they didn't usually get caught up in the action). Yet again, right before he was going to say they could pass on to the afterlife, the mercenary vanished. He had stood up in his seat, and shouted "Not again!" so loudly that about fifty people in the waiting line shifted uncomfortably. He checked the list, looking for the name, and yes, it was there; Hector Andre Mundy, complete with the word 'Sniper' right next to it.

After that, he found himself watching each mercenary he came across with a steady eye. He saw them quite often, dangerous as that particular job was, and half-expecting them to disappear into thin air whenever he met them was starting to wear on his nerves.

The third time was with a rather loud and burly man, also wearing red, with a helmet that went so far down on his head you couldn't see his eyes. Oddly, he said his name was Jane, though he was only permitted to refer to him as "Soldier, private!"

He managed to work out that the two before who had disappeared also had alternate names that were actually the titles of different classes of mercenaries, but before he could even ask his method of death the Soldier vanished too.

Now, he was certain that the next time he came across a mercenary dressed in red or blue who happened to have a second name, he would demand to know why they were suddenly all disappearing before he was able to do his job.

Incidentally, only two more people passed before he found who he was looking for.

"Ach, I hope that dummkopf's brain is more developed when he gets respawned," was the first thing they had said.

"Sorry?" he responded blankly.

"He should know by now that if you rocket launch _away_ from your medic, he is not able to _heal_ you, and therefore you have a much higher chance of being filled with lead or set on fire!" He had clawed his rubber gloved hands through his greying black hair in frustration before he realised that the person he was talking to had no idea was he was going on about.

"Ah, I apologise," he said, adjusting himself into a more presentable stance.

"No, no," he had replied, leaning forward and intertwining his hands on the desktop, sensing a good joke. "Keep going..."

The man, who was wearing a white lab coat, along with an odd looking device attached to his back by two straps, let out a short groan of irritation before he launched into the full story.

"I was working in my job as a medic, with a group of mercenaries, and in the middle of a battle my schweinehund of a team member used that God-for-saken rocket launcher to catapult himself into the enemy base, forgetting I was meant to stay with him during the assault! That is my purpose: follow, heal, repeat. _When will these idiots learn?!_ "

"Yes, yes, get to the point..." he ushered him along.

"Ah, right," said the man. "Well, now that my partner had launched away, I decided to find some one else who would be in need of my assistance. However, I only took one step before my head was blown to smithereens by the blue sniper." He made a 'poof' motion with his hands around his head for emphasis. "The end."

"Oh," he said, leaning back in his chair feeling a bit disappointed.

"Anyway," the medic went on, "my name is--"

Then, suddenly, he realised something.

"Wait, did you say 'blue sniper'?"

The medic looked irritated at being interrupted, but upon hearing the question seemed to adopt an air of slight confusion. "Yes..."

He slammed his hands on the table and leaned forward so far the medic took a step backwards. " _Who are you people and why do you keep disappearing?!_ "

The medic just looked startled, and still a little confused. Then he looked annoyed. "I tried to tell you who I was, but then you interrupted me!"

"Well, get on with it, then!" he snapped. "I don't have all day!"

The medic was beginning to shift his overall composure from annoyance to exasperation. "I assume you want to know about the effects of the respawn, yes?"

"The what?"

Respawn? What in all the hells was _that_?

"The respawn is an extremely advanced piece of technology that is powered by Australium," the medic explained. "Whenever any of us is killed on the battlefield, our molecular signature is identified and--"

He made a loud and exaggerated snoring sound, and then pretended to wake up from a nap.

"What? Oh, sorry, dozed off. _Get on with it!_ "

"I was just-- Oh, fine. Basically, when we die on the field the respawn brings us back to life. That is most likely what you are asking about."

...

Brought back to _life_?

That was insane! Preposterous! The very idea was ludicrous! You couldn't-- It wasn't-- You just--

He forced himself out of his stupor before the medic (Or just Medic, he supposed, if he was right in guessing that was his class title) might think he was having a stroke.

"So..." he said, his tone slow and cautious, "what you're telling me is, you lot can die over and over again, each time having a new method of death?"

"Well, I wouldn't say a new method _each time_ , but..." the Medic shrugged briefly. "I suppose so."

"These deaths," he continued, "do they ever tend to be... stupid?"

The Medic barked a short, harsh laugh.

"You have no idea, kamerad."

Suddenly, he wasn't so angry at these mercenaries.

After a while, he got to know them all. There were eighteen in total, nine in red and nine in blue; the Sniper, the Engineer, the Scout, the Demo Man, the Soldier, the Spy, the Medic, the Pyro, and the Heavy Weapons Guy (Heavy for short). Each of them had a proper name, but they all seemed to prefer to be addressed as their titles. He was fine with that, honestly; they were easy enough to remember. He noticed that each pair of red and blue classes were extremely similar in appearance, but the fact that they were in possession of a machine that could _bring people back to life_ didn't make him doubt the possibilities of cloning. Not that he particularly cared. As long as they had a funny story, he was all ears no matter who they were.

Of course, they didn't always end up in his lobby whenever they died. It just seemed to be a random detour their life energy took within the time their bodies were repaired in the respawn. It was just as well; he didn't want to get sick of seeing their faces over and over again.

On the whole, it was thanks to whoever created the insane machine in the first place that his job was made a little less boring. After all, hearing stories about getting trapped in a room full of sentry-bots (Machines designed to shoot people full of bullets), having rockets backfired onto you courtesy of a heat blast of the Pyro's flamethrower, getting shot by your own sentry, courtesy of an enemy Scout ("I was runnin' _circles_ around 'em!"), healing a Spy only to find out he wasn't on your team, and simply offending the Heavy Weapons Guy while in possession of his favourite gun, Sasha (Which was so big only the burly Russian was capable of lifting it), he often found himself incapable of speaking due to a laugh-induced hoarse voice.


End file.
